“I saw only the flowers;” and Helen colored beautifully as she spoke.
“And read them?” he asked, with a look she could not meet.
She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came up, saying, as he offered a note,—
“Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends you this, and begs you to come at once.”
As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper into Helen’s lap. She restored it, and in the act, her quick eye caught the signature, “Thine ever, Ludmilla.”
A slight shadow passed over her face, leaving it very cold and quiet. Hoffman saw the change, and smiled, as if well pleased, but assuming suddenly his usual manner, said deferentially,—
“Will mademoiselle permit me to visit my friend for an hour?—she is expecting me.”
“Go, then, we do not need you,” was the brief reply, in a careless tone, as if his absence was a thing of no interest to any one.
“Thanks; I shall not be long away;” and giving her a glance that made her turn scarlet with anger at its undisguised admiration, he walked away, humming gayly to himself Goethe’s lines,—
“Maiden’s heart and city’s wall